


Porchlight

by clotpoleofthelord (plantainleaf)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Party, Christmas in Atlantis, M/M, SGA Secret Santa 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 18:16:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3080138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantainleaf/pseuds/clotpoleofthelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas isn’t the same when you’re 3 million miles from Earth. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Porchlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aqualegia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aqualegia/gifts).



> Happy Holidays to aqualegia, and a huge THANK YOU to the SGA Secret Santa mods for an incredible DECADE of this challenge.
> 
> Thanks also to brinnanza (and my husband Mike) for the beta jobs!!

Elizabeth’s speech is lovely. It’s moving, meaningful, reassuring, emotionally resonant, and all that other stuff she’s great at. And the mess hall looks, well, _festive_ , Rodney supposes is the right word. There’s garlands of almost-holly from that planet with the orange grapes, and even a big evergreen in a corner that’s been trimmed until it’s vaguely conical. Ford and Carson are running the music, Zelenka and Simpson the lights, and there’s a Secret Santa exchange planned for later in the night. 

Teyla is with the Athosians for a few days while the Earth people get their Christmas spirit out. Rodney supposes it’s weird to hang out with a bunch of people celebrating their own traditions when you have no connection to or context for them. It’s how he feels on most of their missions that end in “harvest festivals.”

Frankly, it’s kind of how he’s feeling now. 

Everywhere he looks, there are people laughing and chatting and reflecting fondly on Earth. Even the non-Christians among them, and there are quite a few, are getting into the whole “Earth-nostalgia” thing. 

Rodney’s not sure he’s really getting into the spirit of things, honestly. He’s never been one for holidays–unless you count Pi day or Einstein’s birthday or any of the other absurd holidays invented to entertain scientists and provide an excuse for the consumption of baked goods. But Christmas?

Sure, as a kid, they’d done the whole tree, presents thing. He even remembers his grandparents dragging them all to some church once when he was very young. But since he moved out for college (and especially since he and Jeannie had their, uh, _disagreement_ , and she stopped calling on Christmas in some sort of McKay solidarity attempt), it’s just been another day, one with more opportunity for lab time while everyone else is gone.

But the point is that this whole fond-memories thing is not really his area of expertise. He’s got no one on Earth, no family, no friends, no long-standing traditions besides giving his cat an extra can of Fancy Feast. 

He’d sort of figured most of the people on Atlantis were like him. He knows there’s no one with spouses or children back on Earth because the whole “likely one-way-trip” precluded that kind of attachments. But Carson has his mom, Ford has grandparents and cousins, and Zelenka has more brothers and sisters and apparently _pigeons_ than Rodney can really even conceptualize, even with his genius brain. Even the grunts are waving around pictures of dogs and sisters and maybe nieces and nephews, and the whole thing’s just one big Earth-fest, and Rodney’s just not feeling it.

He kind of wishes he’d gone with Teyla to the mainland, but then again, he’s not all that good at sleeping in tents of questionable fur, or of the way the Athosian children stare at him and try to get him to give them his stuff. So maybe not. 

Carson is probably going to get weepy, and Ford’s right there with him. Elizabeth is holding court, as usual, at the largest table, and Radek is watching her adoringly, clutching what looks like a beaker of water, but Rodney knows from unfortunate experience (and his slightly blurry, spinning head) is incredibly potent moonshine.

Major Sheppard, though, is nowhere to be found.

Rodney last saw him loitering in the corner, sipping the Athosian excuse for beer, watching Cadman make a fool out of Major Lorne to the beat of some kind of techno off one of the German scientists’ iPods. He’d been gone the next time Rodney turned around, and it’s been half an hour or so since then. 

He squeezes through the crowd (and really, how can barely a hundred people seem like so many more than that when they’re all in one place?) and into the corridor, immediately feeling cooler, calmer, and less anxious once he’s out of the crush of people. And even better, there’s a terminal just down the hall.

Sheppard’s not in his quarters, the computer informs him, or out on his usual pier, but Rodney has a pretty good idea where else to look.

***

The quiet of the central tower is refreshing and bizarre at the same time. There’s a skeleton crew ostensibly on duty: mostly expedition members who don’t celebrate Christmas. But even they are at the celebration, just banned from alcohol and with automated alerts set up so they’ll know the moment anything strange happens. So the tower is deserted, dark, with just the emergency lights on, dimly glowing in the Lantean night.

The door to the balcony swishes open for him, and Rodney can’t help but smile at how _cool_ a city that reads minds is. Yeah, they’ve got automatic doors on Earth, but motion sensors are not nearly as awesome as ATA gene-activated doors.

It’s warm, equivalent to a late Toronto spring evening, and while that’s probably familiar for the Malaysians and Australians and Argentinians among them, it’s not doing much for Rodney’s anemic Christmas spirit. But then, he’s not complaining; after postings in Siberia and Antarctica, a warm day is still almost a novelty.

The balcony’s a little brighter than the control room, but it’s still dim enough that the stars are bright across the sky. It’s starting to be familiar, the starscape of Pegasus, at least from this particular planet. As he suspected, there’s one lone figure leaning against the railing, elbows on the rail, bottle dangling from one hand. Rodney hefts the sack of not-beer off his shoulder and sets it on the ground beside John’s feet and leans beside him, staring out at the dark water.

“Party done?” asks Sheppard, voice quiet despite the nearly silent night.

Rodney shrugs. “Not yet. I think Ford is planning on running some kind of DDR competition. I guess Simpson built something that’s fairly close to the original.”

“Huh.”

They stand for a few minutes in companionable silence, John’s shoulder warm beside Rodney’s, before Rodney huffs out what’s almost a laugh. “You know, I didn’t even realize it was December.” He waves a hand at the dim blue ocean and bright stars around them. “All this? Not exactly the North Pole. Although, last Christmas I was in Siberia, so–” he shrugs. “It’s an upgrade.”

John shrugs. “Last Christmas I was in Afghanistan. This is absolutely an upgrade.” He glances towards Rodney. “At least you had snow.”

Rodney gives him an incredulous look. “I had nearly two meters of snow last Christmas. Too much of a good thing, Major, believe me. And I’m Canadian, if you recall.”

“Still. Desert Christmas. Not really as cool as it sounds.” He grins suddenly. “Actually, it’s the opposite. It was almost 60 degrees.”

Rodney groans. “Oh my god, how did I ever think you were cool?”

John’s grin widens until his eyes crinkle at the sides. “I’m cool.”

“Yeah, that’s what my _dad_ used to say. And it was just as accurate.” But Rodney’s grinning back, eyes bright, reflecting the lights from inside the tower.

John’s face is open, none of the usual stress and anxiety it’s been filled with so much recently, and Rodney can’t help but stare for a moment.

John is–well, bottom line, he’s just a really attractive guy. And yeah, Rodney talks a big game about the ladies, and since he started working mostly for the U.S. military, it’s just been easier to stick with that, but that doesn’t make him _blind_. So he can’t always stop himself from indulging in a moment’s appreciation of John’s, uhm, _physical appeal._

But then he realizes he’s gone a little too long with the whole staring thing and John’s raised an eyebrow, grin fading to a dimmer, more quizzical quirk of lips. Rodney tears his eyes away, busying himself with finishing the bottle in his hand and reaching for another pair from the bag at their feet. Handing one to John, he clears his throat. “Christmas was always kind of weird for my family, anyway,” he blurts out.

John blinks and takes the bottle. “Yeah?”

Rodney nods, trying to pull the conversation back to neutral, normal, not-staring-at-your-straight-best-friend’s-lips territory. “You know. The usual. Bitter parents, kids too smart for their own good, Jeannie’s constant whining–”

“Oh, _Jeannie’s_ whining was the issue.” John’s smiling again, fondly, almost, and Rodney suddenly wishes he’d had about three fewer beers throughout the evening.

“Yes. Well. It might have been a shared problem.”

John’s silent a moment, then he taps his bottle against the railing. “Yeah, Christmas was weird for my family, too, I guess.”

“Family trouble?” Rodney blinks. “Do you even have family? I mean, uh, alive?”

“Yeah.” John doesn’t turn towards him, looking up at the stars. “I think so, anyway.”

“You think?”

“Someone would probably tell me if they weren’t.” His hands dangle over the edge of the railing, bottle held loosely, but Rodney can see the tension in his shoulders (And when, he wonders to himself, did he get to know this man’s signals well enough that he can even tell that?). 

“You’re not close, I’m guessing.”

“You could say that.”

They’re standing close again, somehow even closer than before on the narrow balcony, and Rodney’s whole arm is pressed alongside John’s. And it’s Christmas, and they’re in a galaxy far, far away, and he’s been shot at and nearly eaten by aliens, so he lets himself lean in a little further as a cool breeze drifts over the tower. He deserves this, he thinks. He does.

“It’s just–” John pauses, and Rodney forces himself to watch the sea instead of turning to stare at whoever’s replaced John Sheppard beside him, because there is _no way_ the Major is willingly elaborating on a _feeling_. 

Rodney suddenly remembers an episode of that show with the guy from M.A.S.H. (Alan something? Well, whatever, that part’s not important) that went and did all the MRIs and talked to neurologists and psychologists and stuff. He wouldn’t have watched it, except it always seemed to be on when he couldn’t fall asleep after finishing some paper or wrapping up work on a artifact or something and he found it bizarrely compelling. Anyway, the whole episode was on body language and emotions and other hoodoo sorts of things, but he distinctly remembers one of the “experts” telling the M.A.S.H. guy that most men find it easier to discuss emotions while facing the same direction as their conversational partner, rather than looking at them. 

He figures he’ll give it a try, because the last thing he wants to do is spook John out of whatever he’s planning to say.

“Holidays were rough.” John’s eyes cut to the side, towards Rodney, then back out over the ocean. “There were always parties, and people, and–” he lets out a frustrated sigh. “It wasn’t what I wanted.”

“Oh, _people _.” Rodney nudges him with his shoulder. “Yes, well, I can see how that would be a problem for you.”__

__John is silent, but his jaw clenches a little, and Rodney feels his breath catch a little._ _

__“I mean, it’s not like you–well, neither of us is all that great at groups. I just–” He gulps another long swallow of beer to cover his embarrassment. “They used to tell me to stay in my room for company. I, uh, told one too many great-aunts they were stupid, I guess.”_ _

__John snorts. “Sounds like you.” But his face relaxes a little, and he sighs. “My dad and I–we, uh, didn’t exactly see eye to eye about some things. Like money. And–other stuff. Personal stuff. He didn’t think I–” he stops, sighing and shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter.”_ _

__Rodney knows he’s pushing his luck, but he can’t help but ask. “He didn’t think what?”_ _

__“He and I just had a couple differences of opinion.”_ _

__“That’s very specific, Major.” Rodney nudges his shoulder, and John sways to the side, his balance obviously affected by the quantity of alcohol provided at the party._ _

__“Hey!” he protests, and his answering nudge is less a nudge and more a shove, but he misjudges the force, somehow. The push and the amount they’d drunk at the party (not to mention the sack of beer at their feet that quickly tangled in Rodney’s feet) conspire together somehow to tip him over to the side, slipping on a wet patch of balcony. He yelps and grabs for John’s arm, trying to steady himself, but somehow they still both end up going down in a tangle of limbs and miraculously unspilled beers._ _

__Rodney narrowly avoids a pointy elbow in the eye, and lands flat on his back with John sprawled half across him. There’s a moment of silence, when the only sound is the lapping of waves against the piers below, and then John’s eyes crinkle and his mouth widens in a goofy, goofy smile. Rodney can’t resist grinning back, the tension of earlier melting away._ _

__And maybe it’s the beer, or the moonshine, or the moonlight, or maybe it’s just because it’s Christmas and they’re three million light years from Earth, but his hand comes up and cups around John’s shoulder, brushing lightly down the fabric of his tee shirt before curling around his bicep. John watches him, expression inscrutable, but he doesn’t pull back from where he’s pressed along Rodney’s side. In fact–and Rodney feels his heart speed up as his fingers encounter the soft skin of John’s inner elbow–in fact, his eyes are drifting shut and his mouth’s a little open, and there’s a look on his face that Rodney can’t quite interpret._ _

__“Major–” he starts, then tries again. “John–”_ _

__John opens his eyes, and Rodney suddenly recognizes the look on his face. It’s the intent, determined, and barely-concealed anxiety face John makes before he hands over his gun to some alien guard, or jumps into a dark hole, or dives into a river after a fallen comrade. It’s not a look Rodney associates with _good_ things, and he’s about to do _something_ (what, he really doesn’t know yet) when John rolls closer, pulls his elbows in until he’s resting over Rodney, leans close, and presses his lips to Rodney’s firmly, warmly, and without hesitation._ _

__Rodney McKay has always prided himself on being pretty quick on the uptake. Very little fazes him, or makes him take more than a second to absorb. But this? Major John Sheppard, USAF, beloved of priestesses and female scientists alike, best friend, _straight_ friend, kissing him? It doesn’t compute._ _

__But one thing Rodney McKay has never been is slow to adapt, and now is no exception. So his hands come up, tentative at first, and he catches John around the cheeks and pulls him closer, returning the kiss fully as warmth suffuses his body._ _

__It’s a few moments before they pull apart, breaths coming hard, and John’s eyes are almost twinkling above him. He grins, staring down at Rodney, hands resting against Rodney’s shoulders, and says quietly, “Merry Christmas, McKay.”_ _

__Rodney clears his throat, tries to fight the grin that he can feel stretching across his face. “It really is, isn’t it?”_ _

__(They never make it back to the party.)_ _


End file.
